Stephen Riley (2nd place. Poetry. Spring 2011 Writing Contest)
The colors we could’ve felt together,
they will never be known.
The green lushness that might’ve
brushed against our faces,
replaced by fallen raindrops
conceived from confused windows.
That inviting orange glow that would’ve
warmed our night bodies
has turned to a pile of smoldering
ashes, wisdom lost in the embers.
What I wouldn’t give to gaze
at that purple curtain with you,
all those dots of wondrous creation
making our minds ask, “What if?”
The colors we could’ve tasted,
through time they rot.
That brown sand slipping through our
hands grasp, all of those forgotten
kingdoms have no king, only an heir;
grains silence the majestic.
Those pungent grey clouds, hefty
with time’s perception, will never
seep from our mouths into hungry
ears, mental digestion starved.
What frozen white sculptures
would stand in our presence, marveling
at their creator before decomposing
into the earth, just as you have.